


Preparations of Bitter Orange

by Caesia390



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22827520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caesia390/pseuds/Caesia390
Summary: Draco compilation. "Draco is tall and skinny like the other boys who are growing up, and his strength is flashing in and out of existence in the shadows, when he thinks no one is looking."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 6





	1. Omphaloskepsis

xxxxx

Where it all begins is her mind drifting from potion herbs (but not the ones Professor Snape uses) to the fungi that grow in the dung of a horsefly to the horsefly’s eyes, image upon image upon image, and each one shows you a different version of yourself and if you put yourself into the fly’s mind (there’s a trick to it, of course) you can see inside yourself. And the idea intrigues Luna. Frame upon frame upon frame of her dull blonde hair, her large eyes (she has trouble picturing the rest very clearly as she doesn’t typically spend very long in front of mirrors… not looking at them, anyway), but what goes on inside… If she could catch the darting fireflies of her thoughts within the foggy matrix of her mind…

It’s a bit like contemplating your navel, really, and Father published that article about oranges once and Luna had spent a whole hour staring at a pockmarked rind and the puckered depression where the stem had been… Not so different, really, and the dissension (no, your belly button) drifted off into a corner of her mind and rested there, forgotten. Because what if it could really be your citrus fruit, the juices inside it held sweet until it rotted in your hand if you contemplated too long…

And it was in this way, at breakfast in the Great Hall, with tangerines (opened, exposed) in bowls along the table, that Luna realized she’d been noticing Draco Malfoy for quite a long time, and she wanted to think about that before her fascination molded and fell apart sticky and sour in her hand.

Because he’d been in the back of her mind, really, with all of the other distractions, but that Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy and he stayed that way, while everyone else faded in and out of noise, of sight. For some reason his disturbances always carried his identity with them.

Draco. Malfoy. Small for his size but making big noise, always liked to cause trouble for Harry “The Boy Who Lived” Potter. All bark and no bite (use beech wood bark for manticore bites) but grey flashing eyes (pale eyes, pale skin, pale hair) like the will o’ the wisp who disappears when he doesn’t believe he’s real anymore.

It would seem strange, that she thinks these things all at once, when they must have been there, in her mind, all along. But it doesn’t matter; the orange's thin skin is still taught and unpunctured over the deep-coloured pulp buds. She doesn’t want to eat it yet.

Lucius Malfoy led the attack in the Ministry last year. She remembers his arrogant, exasperated voice and his wide, powerful shoulders supporting that sweeping black cloak. The features of his face practically burning through the mask; she knew their sharp angles even before the pictures in the papers (Lord Veelamort Rises: Species Of Sirens Hungry for Power, Not Just Human Blood).

He didn’t seem the type to be sent to Azkaban, but that he was proud, and Father always told her that the proud fell, if only in their hearts.

Draco is tall and skinny like the other boys who are growing up, and his strength is flashing in and out of existence in the shadows, when he thinks no one is looking (Luna doesn’t look, but she notices). She could tell him to wear a swede dug up on a waning half-moon, tied round his neck and under his shirt, to hold his spirit for him when he’s afraid.

She won’t tell him this.

Because Luna doesn’t care whether Draco Malfoy gains confidence or falters.

It’s just that she’s been noticing him.

And she wants to keep on noticing. She wants to know.

The small orange is sweet, too sweet. Luna chews slowly and swallows. Her face can’t be bothered with a grimace, even as the juice squirts all around her mouth, too easily bled.

Perhaps she’ll learn something this year, a charm to figure out what to do with idle curiosity. One of her father’s friends, perhaps, could teach her something. This random fascination can only be a sign for something else.

xxxxx


	2. Prisoner

~~~

Applied in excess, the Cruciatus renders interrogation useless, as it may deprive the detainee of reason.  
-Aurors’ Handbook, Sealed Chapter ix

…

"Hallucinations are what you feel," she says, and when you look over she's staring at you, as she does, skinny arms around her knees so that the wrist bones protrude, pale frog eyes staring at you.

She might not have spoken. Her wispy voice tends to drift aimlessly around your dreams, your nightmares.

You don’t want to contemplate her random phrases; you want to get out of here. You think of your father, and how he wouldn't have stood for this filth, this indignity, this defeat.

It doesn't even annoy you anymore, that you were never wickedsmartpowerfulstrong enough. Because none of that matters. You finally learned to think for yourself, and now you're going to die for it. Heroically. It’s enough to make you laugh.

"Delusions are what you think about it."

Soft, certain, her voice slithering into your mind. She’s so young. Younger than you, anyway, only by a year, but it's enough to have something over someone, now, to be the one who does the ordering, the one who does the protecting. You almost want to touch her, to do something with her since she insists on making a nuisance of herself, but she's dirty and weak and there's just enough light in this place to see how translucent her skin has grown, how tangled and matted her hair.

She should look wild, but her voice is calm.

"You may justifiably feel that you are going mad." Matter-of-fact. Ravenclaw. Useless.

 _Luna..._ you say, exasperated, and you reach for her, something like old, niggling fear crawling up your spine.

"How many times did they use the cruciatus?" You stop. You can't - can't touch her. Her flesh soft and bruised, her throat torn, her bloodied... blood-filled... lifeless eyes... You were there. You watched. You were there.

You won't touch her.

How many times...? You don't remember. Of all the curses they used on her, all the curses you…

She looks at you and sees you for once, nothing more of the dreamer in her eyes.

Qualifies her question: "On you."

xxxxx


	3. Emulsion

Draco Malfoy was weeping before he snatched Colin’s camera and tried to destroy it with his hands.

Even Ginny moves away from the lens. Pale skin, pale freckles, and her red robes heavy with blood.

There are the false, uncomfortable smiles and the grimaced smirks. But what Colin prefers is this: When they are too spent to dismiss him. When they frown and turn and must forget him.

They are only thin smears of soul, the photographs.

Colin steals no wholesome souls. They are greyscales of emotion – regret and raw exhaustion.

And Colin is the thief – all eye and hunger.


	4. Mediterranean Ex-Traitor Ex-Soldier Ex-Pat

Toward the End of His First Summer of Retirement From the Wizarding World  
In Italy

She showed up in a vintage convertible. It purred complacently in his villa’s front drive as she hoisted herself out, the movement fluttering her sundress up and about her waist. He couldn’t fail to notice the rock on her finger, but he tore his gaze to her face, to the rich brown eyes hidden behind tacky plastic shades.

“Ginny.” He noticed her freckles; he noticed the delicate scars left over from the war.

“Mrs. Zabini now.” And she was smirking, pushing the sunglasses up and into her tangle of auburn curls. Staring at him innocent and wicked and aiming for his heart. “Blaise and I are honeymooning on the other side of the bay.”

He would deal with this information later. “So kind of you to drop by,” he sneered.

“Don’t mention it.”

He hated that smile. He hated the pretense that anything between them could be casual, could be innocent. “Official Auror business, I take it? Keeping tabs on all the old enemies?” He kept his tone light and biting, but took a step backward into the shade of his porch, slinking further into his den as if he really were the criminal he sometimes pretended to be, sometimes was.

Ginny grinned, looking rueful. Confirming nothing, denying nothing, she followed his retreat at an easy pace, keeping her distance. Draco knew all the moves to this dance. But then she was closer, invading his space, and there was nothing of ‘Mrs. Zabini’ or ‘Agent Weasley’ in that gaze. She cocked her head to the side, and something that could have been a genuine emotion shone pure and poignant on her face.

So this was how it was to be, then. This. The first kiss could have been ‘Hello again,’ the second, ‘I missed you.’ ‘I hate you’ and ‘God damn you, you faithless bitch’ got lost somewhere in the middle, when they both were so busy overwhelming each other it was hard to tell exactly what was communicated.

Later, watching her drive off to meet her traitor of a husband, Draco remembered to violently resent this disturbance to his newfound quiet life.

xxx


End file.
